The Tranquility Of My Shadows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounded as I am:
Looking at my neck over the fountain:
Try to leap over the mountain—
It is impossible, so have another drink again:
This world’s fangs made to speak
Of vineyard, underneath the half-lights
In the garden of her elbows:
This is the uneasy place, placed at the lips of
Serpents:
This is the airport of all of my roses,
And I’ve been getting drunk,
So I am filled with so many excuses, as the world
Makes a bed with the crepuscule of the darkness,
As it gets so late,
And the horses go down to their water holes
After the tricks of fireworks—
And all of the mouths of wolves are hungry,
And all of the classrooms of daylight are emptied,
And the there isn’t anymore more to say
Than this:
That you were once my muse, but you were married
And wingless:
And now another Christmas has passed,
And I am married—
And I do not think of you, at least in the daylight that is too
Busied to be wounded—
And you go home to him until you are freckled by those shadows,
And rested and easy:
Then there is no longer a carnival in your soul,
And you have nothing to say to anybody—and this is but my last
Light cast out for you into the evening:
And does not know if there will be another tomorrow to think of
You,
As you lie again in the bedroom that has never felt the tranquility
Of my shadows.